


The Ghost In You

by a_xmasmurder



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Already Dead Character, Alternate Universe, Fluff, Gen, Ghost!Q, Ghosts, Haunted Flats, Might gather more tags as we go, Other, Pre-Skyfall, There's not enough booze in the world for this, ghost story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond wonders why you can't shoot a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this...thing. Um. I have no idea where it's going to go, it's a WIP. All I know is that it's going to be fluffy and cute and a little emotional at times, but nothing horrid is going to happen. I promise.
> 
> Simply put: Ghost!Q isn't the Quartermaster as we know him. Boothroyd is still alive (for a while), and so is M (we all know which M I am talking about.) I tagged for Skyfall because it _IS_ Whishaw!Q that I'm picturing.

It started with the television.

James sat on his sofa, bottle of vodka fisted in his hand, and stared at the blank screen. Well, to an outside observer, it was blank. To him, visions of his latest mission were overlaid on the display, flickering in and out of focus too fast for his alcohol-addled mind to process fully. All he got were splotches of colour on grey, snippets of sound in a room devoid of noise. Gunshots. Screams. Explosions. Pleas for mercy, of redemption, of sorrow and pain. Gruff orders barked out in sharp staccato, backlit by the fires of the morning sun and the oily black smoke of an oil derrick engulfed in flame.

“ - AND THAT’S THE FINAL SCORE!”

James jerked, dropping the bottle and snatching up his Glock - not his usual weapon, but Boothroyd wouldn’t give him the new one. The old man’s been working on it for decades, now, it seemed like, and he didn't want to give up his baby. To hell with the old bastard, then. His brain sloshed around in his head a bit, and he stared hard at the television.

The television that was now on and at full volume. A football match.

“Must have sat on the remote. Fucking technology.” He looked down at the coffee table and saw the remote. His brain tried to process that. “Or not.” He looked around himself, searching for something that would have turned the blasted thing on. “Can’t think for the blasted _noise_...” He snatched the remote up and stabbed the power button with his thumb, and everything turned off.

Everything.

Including the lights.

“Jesus fucking - my flat is glitching.” James dropped his head to the back of the sofa and clutched the hunk of plastic and components in his hand. “How can a television remote control the lights?” The kitchen light flickered on, and he turned his head sharply, tightening his grip on his pistol. _Intruder_.

“Who is there? You have ten seconds to speak or your life is forfeit.” He counted down the seconds in his head, and when he reached one, a pan clattered to the ground. James twitched, his eyes ticcing shut for a second. “Who’s there?” He kept his voice level, not wanting to alert whomever was in his kitchen. However the hell they got there without him noticing.

A metal spoon followed the pan, ringing off the linoleum and skittering under the table.

James was sober now. Very, very sober. His hands were steady on the gun. The television flickered on again, in the corner of his vision, and his right hand jerked where it was wrapped around the butt of the Glock. This time, the volume was low, and it was a comedy. Someone was doing something stupid to someone else, apparently. Constantly yelling 'HELLO' at a flatmate or something. All of this registered in the back of his mind while he kept his eyes front and center, over the sights of his Glock.

“Once more: who. Is. There?” He didn’t want to entertain the notion that this could be - what? Wind? Wind doesn’t turn on televisions and grab a spoon out of the sink to toss it on the ground. Someone’s idea of a prank? No one dared do something like this to an agent, let alone a Double Oh. “If this is a prank, I’d like you to know that this is the worst possible idea ever. If you know where I live, you know what I do for a living, and you are being a complete and utter idiot. Answer me, or I get to write a very interesting obituary for you when I get into work. If I ever go back.” He led with the Glock as he cat-walked into the kitchen, scanning corners and walls and the lone window - nothing. The television flickered, then turned off. All the lights turned back on full.

James stayed in the kitchen, rooted to the spot, for the rest of the night, waiting for...something. He didn’t know what. But he did know one thing. Televisions just didn’t turn on by themselves.


	2. Chapter 2

The next thing to go mental was the radio in his bedroom.

Three weeks after the television incident, James collapsed in his bed with an audible groan. "Home. Pillows. Nothing is on fire or trying to kill me. No snakes. Thank God."

He lay there, fully dressed in rather crispy-looking Savile Row and leather wingtips, face down on the comforter, gun still hanging from his shoulder harness. One would think he’d died, except his back and sides moved with the regular breaths of the purely exhausted and, within minutes, sound asleep.

Well, until the radio clicked to life. The air seemed to warp, and something shimmered around the radio, then suddenly P!nk blared out of the speakers, top volume once again.

James rolled over, off the bed entirely, wide awake in an instant - instinct - and carefully aimed the gun that he’d grabbed during his roll at - nothing at all. He blinked a few times, wondering if he just couldn’t see his assailant. They do have that holographic fabric, after all. Maybe it was a ninja. Wouldn’t surprise him. His eyes roved, triangulating until he verified that no ninjas, holographic or otherwise, stood in corners or disguised themselves as the large potted plants that he really didn’t know why he kept and was sure now that he was going to get rid of because hello, hiding spot? He took one hand of the gun and rubbed his eyes hard, trying to focus. “Fucking...what? What the hell?” He blinked again, then realised the radio was off. “What. Is. Going. On.”

The radio clicked on again, only this time it was quieter and the station had changed to classical music, soothing and doing nothing at all to soothe his jangled nerves.

"God _damn_ it." He rubbed his face and sighed. "Stupid buggering...I need to get a new place. I'm going to talk to that bitch tomorrow and see if I can't get a new place. This is getting ridiculous. First the telly, now this? My radio. Why do I even have a radio in here, anyway?" He grabbed the small appliance off the bedside table and ripped the plug out of the wall. The radio went straight into the small rubbish bin in the corner.

Another sleepless night, sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of Scotch and a glass in front of him and his Glock in his right hand, listening to nothing but the clock ticking away on the wall above the refrigerator. He stared, blearily, at the fridge. "If you start shooting ice cubes at me, you are the first thing to go, you hear me?" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm having a conversation with a fucking appliance. I need sleep." He lay his head down on his arm and sighed. "Just a couple of minutes. And I'm serious about the ice."

His buzzing mobile snapped him awake. He reached out and grabbed it, stabbing his finger at the screen for the speaker function. “Hello?”

“Good morning, 007.” A low female voice growled over the speaker. “Are you going to come in for your weapons proficiency test this morning, or are you going to brush that off like you do everything else?”

“Of course I am, M.” James rolled his head on his shoulder, popping his vertebrae back into place. He’d fallen asleep at the table. And his happy little whatever the fuck it was that was going on with his flat decided not to bother him again, apparently. There’s a lot of ‘apparently’s happening lately, it seems. He groaned when he looked up at the sun shining through the kitchen window, and the clock told him he was woefully late for the test. So much for a couple of minutes. “I’ll be coming in first thing. I...had a rough night.”

“Apparently, Bond.” Again with the word. “Try not to piss off the man in charge.” Click.

He took a deep breath and dropped his head onto his outstretched forearm. “Oh, M, if you only knew that for once I'm not talking about an overactive lover or an empty bar...I’m moving.” He looked down at himself, still dressed in the ruined suit. "But first, I need to change."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oh god this is so stupid, why am I even still working on this thing ;_; )

“Eve, I believe my flat is haunted.”

Eve looked up from the paperwork on her desk.

“I’m serious.”

The look in her eyes told him that his sanity was being held in contention.

“My electronics keep turning themselves on, and now there’s knocking on the walls and for the love of God, help me here.”

“How much have you had to drink, sir?”

James dropped his head back against the chair’s padded headrest. “Nothing today. Well...mostly. Early this morning, I had a couple - look, it doesn’t matter!” He spread his hands out in front of him and shook them. “What matters is that my flat is haunted, and M won’t let me get a new one.”

“Maybe she’s waiting for you to ‘die’ so she can sell the current one, and then she’ll let you have another when you get back.” Eve shrugged and flipped the top sheet. “How do you all deal with all of this paperwork, sir?”

“I don’t? I let it fester in the bottom of the drawer until someone just does them for me or they disappear.” James sighed. “Listen, stop calling me ‘sir’. It makes me feel old and bureaucratic. Call me ‘James’. Or ‘Bond’, if you prefer to stay...professional.” He had to admit he was leering, but just a little bit. He did have an image to uphold, even though his life seemed to be falling apart around him. The icy glare the newer agent sent his way made his lip curl up into a satisfied smirk.

“Not here, sir - well, Bond. I do prefer to ‘stay professional’, as you put it.”

“Very well.” James stood up and patted her hand kindly, letting his fingers stay in contact with her beautiful skin just a little longer than necessary. Since she didn’t kick him or slap him, the contact was welcome, at least in a friendly way. For now. “I think we are going to work well together, you and I.”

* * *

His next line of defence was Q, so that’s where he headed next. He found the old man tinkering with yet another damned gun, something wicked looking that had James hoping it was his.

“Hey, Q.”

“Huh, what?” Q twisted around and winced, grunted something about his poor back, then pushed his safety glasses onto his wrinkled forehead. “Oh, 007. Perfect. Hello, how are you? I’ve got something here that you might like.” He chuckled. “Oh, who am I kidding, you are going to love it! You young things and your explosives and your guns. Now, when I was your age - “

“Q, my flat is haunted.”

The man stopped in the middle of his monologue and looked at James. “Now, what am I supposed to do about that?”

James blinked. “You believe me.”

Q snorted. “Of course I do! I’m an old man, I’ve been around. I’ve seen things, 007, things that people wouldn’t think twice about dismissing. So yes - you say your flat is haunted. I believe you. What I’m having a hard time understanding is why you are telling me about it?”

“Don’t you have...something I could use to get rid of it?” James shrugged. “I need to sleep.”

“Oh, no, no no, 007, you don’t want to get rid of it.” The old man waved his hands excitedly and started picking things up out of habit.

“I...don’t?” James groaned and followed the major as he puttered around the workshop. “No, I do. I really, really do. Because it’s doing things while I’m trying to sleep, and I need sleep.”

“Is it trying to hurt you?” Q hummed at an old-fashioned radio and some cathodes. “Need to do something about these, I think.” He looked back up at James. “Well, is it?”

“Yes. It’s not. Letting. Me. Sleep.” James made a show of yawning, one that made the Quartermaster roll his eyes dramatically. “I’m a hazard to myself and others and the mission if I am sleep deprived. This ghost is going to kill me.” He stared down at the wires Boothroyd shoved into his hands.

“Have you tried talking to it?”

“I’ve yelled at it, thrown shoes and sharp implements at what I thought was the ghost but was a shadow instead, and debated watching Ghostbusters to figure out how to make one of those guns.”

“Oh, you are going about it all wrong.” Q tutted. “Talk to it, 007. It might only want companionship.” He disappeared with a belated wave into his office, leaving James holding a fistful of multi-coloured wires and with no clue how to talk to a ghost.  


	4. Chapter 4

James reached out with a toe and pressed the power button for his computer, then leaned back in his office chair and swallowed the rest of his coffee. First full night of rest in a month, ever since his damned flat started freaking out on him, and he felt great. Luckily, the crazy had seemed to stop, once he stopped giving a shit about what people would think and took Boothroyd’s advice. He had a conversation with his sofa two nights ago. Well, he had the conversation with the room in general, but he had been looking at the sofa the whole time. He wasn’t sure why.

The moment everything booted up, the word processor opened.

He stared at the screen, blinking back a sense of foreboding and dread. “I didn’t do that.” He groaned. “Oh, not again. Can you please just leave me alone? Whomever or whatever you are, damn it. _I don’t believe in ghosts!_ ”

There. He said it. _Ghost_. His flat was being haunted by a ghost with a knack for electronics and annoying him, and he did not believe in ghosts, the evidence be damned. But it had to be - he’d checked and re-checked and went over the whole place with a fine toothed comb and a Humbug, and come up with nothing at all. Leaving out humans, wind, giant invisible face-eating spiders, holographic ninjas, the neighbor’s Pomeranian and his own horrible imagination, it had to be a ghost. A very. Annoying. Ghost.

He rolled his head on his shoulders, and stared down at the computer screen. His eyes widened as he realised there was something written on the screen in bold, big black letters.

**Sorry. Getting used to this.**

James squinted at the screen. “Getting used to what?”

As he watched in horrified fascination, words appeared on the screen, one letter at a time - almost as if the ghost was...typing them?

**Having someone here. Trying to get used to it. It’s been a while since anyone lived here, I sort of got used to being by myself. Hello.**

“Oh, now you say hello,” James grumbled.

**I said hello before, it was just**

The words stopped, and James had to bite down to keep from saying anything. It felt as though it - the ghost? - was pausing...

**Well, like I said, getting used to having someone here again. I suppose I got it wrong again. Had it on the wrong channel, I think. I can change the channel, but I didn’t want to scare you.**

Oh. That. The television, the comedy show...the flatmate saying hello over and over. “You could say that. By the way, I don’t scare easily.” James shrugged, then realised he was talking out loud. To a ghost. A ghost that was using his computer to communicate with him. “Holy shit, this is really happening.” He blinked, and the weight of what, exactly, was happening crashed down on top of him, leaving him stunned and taking a very deep breath to stave away the stars sparking in his vision. “You are real. I’m not going insane.”

The temperature of the room seemed to dip a little, then warm back up. James couldn't blame the change for the shiver that went down his spine, though, as the cursor moved again.

**Yes. I’m as real as I can be. Well, being energy and all. And I suppose you aren’t that hard to scare, but you do startle easily.**

“Energy?” He should be saving this for posterity. Or, at the very least, for proof that he wasn’t actually losing his mind. He looked down at his hands to make sure they weren’t anywhere near the keyboard. They weren’t. He glanced back up at the screen, and the cursor moved again.

**Yes, energy. Energy is never lost, it is just repurposed. Basic law of physics.**

“How are you doing this?” James waved his hand at the computer, then belatedly added in the room in general. “Controlling all of...this?”

**Energy. Electricity. Spirits seem to be able to manipulate electrical fields and even simple appliances.**

James opened his mouth to protest, but the cursor kept moving.

**Before you say anything, I know that computers are hardly simple appliances. I**

James held his breath.

**happen to be very good with computers. I was when I was alive, too.**

As soon as the cursor stopped, James felt something change, something in the air around him, like a gust of wind that wasn’t there - _couldn’t_ be there - and then nothing. His ears started to ring. “Ghost? Hey, ghost, are you still here?” He watched the computer screen. There were no new words. He sat there, in front of the computer, for three hours, waiting for his resident ghost to reappear. It never did.


End file.
